Vanilla's Kitchen
by Ciella
Summary: An attempt at comedy gone horribly wrong. It isn't dedicated to my challenger because I don't want to insult anyone.


The old bed groaned for Vanilla when she rose at six in the morning. The wood seemed to whisper to her feet rather than her feet to the wood, she was so quiet. The hem of her old housedress made the motion of sighing without the sound, slipping noiselessly against her bare ankles.

Before her eyes were open enough or her head clear enough to really move about, her expert hands were searching for the pans and dials on the oven. The rattle of a normal household escaped her even as she set down the heavy griddle. When turned on, the burner did not click to start despite years of use. She flicked a capful of oil on the griddle and turned the heavy, cumbersome hunk of metal to coat it evenly. She wondered idly, the engine in her mind just beginning to heat up, if rolling oil sounded a tsunami to an ant.

Grits and hash browns and sausage were ready and had been ready for Cream when she woke at seven. Vanilla turned her head, saying nothing. The little girl read her mother's eyes, "I kept the heat on low to keep your food warm. Now eat up before it gets cold."Cream shuffled around on her cushion, which raised her to the height of the table. She dangled her feet and tapped them on the legs of the chair and table, just for some semblance of noise.

"Thanks for breakfast, Mama," she sighed in her peaceful voice.

"Did you brush your fur, Creamy?"

"No, Mama."

Vanilla stopped scrubbing the griddle, laying it down in the wash bin. She took up a brush. Gently, even more so than a spring breeze, the bristles feathered over her daughter's head, making certain that all of the hair ran in the same direction. "There you are."

Cream gulped down her last bite, hopping to the ground with her plate in hand. "Yum!"

"You're welcome, Creamy." She patted her daughter's head between the ears. "Put some shoes on while I get your lunch ready."

The little girl ran off, slipping and sliding a bit on her worn once-white socks. Vanilla opened the bread box and a nearby cupboard. Sawing off the heel of the bread loaf, which she would later feed to the birds, she thought that falling crumbs must sound like an avalanche to an insect. She spread the peanut butter on both sides and then a dollop of strawberry jam in the middle. It looked oozy and delicious when she packed it in the brown bag, with an apple and grahams and sun tea.

Cream came hopping in in her little black patent leather shoes, but for whatever reason, there was no clack. Those shoes clacked against stone, mud, even thick carpeting, but for whatever reasons, they were silent against the hardwood floor. It seemed a landmine would be noiseless in Vanilla's kitchen.

Vanilla shooed her daughter off to school, with a pack on her back that looked heavier than her and little brown bag bobbing in hand. The mother rabbit shut the door with great care.

She put a great big pot of water up on the stove and dragged out the zinc tub. She lined the bottom with bath beads and soap gel-bubbles, pouring the hot water in slowly. Stripping out of her house clothes, Vanilla got in and soaked until the water got cold.

The house was quiet as a grave. As she reached for the folded white towel, Vanilla strained her ears for some sound. The water dripped mutely from her body. The air rang with silence. Desperate for some noise, she hummed a few notes. Gradually, her throat opened up, and she felt a warm and ease emanating from her chest. She wrapped herself snugly in one towel and wrapped her head in a fluffy turban look-alike.

It felt so good! She wiggled to her own rhythm, or lack thereof, she didn't care! The kitchen couldn't keep up with the influx of music. Sound starting to bound off the cabinets and floor and windows and pots and pans, touching everything with life and color. Still in her towel, she donned a pair of pink and green bobby socks, notes pouring out of her mouth. Then she attempted something she had never done before- smirking to herself, she ran headlong into the kitchen and sock-skated right into the opposite wall.

Falling on her behind, Vanilla leaned back on her elbows and laughed. Gathering up her towel about her, she hopped up, singing faster and louder, dancing on the balls of her feet like a giddy school girl. She plucked the radio from its place on the high shelf and dusted it off. Before she knew it, she had "Layla" bursting out of its little speakers, making the tiny radio bounce around from its own vibrations.

She tossed her head around. The towel-turban lay deserted at her feet as she flung her hair around wildly, sashaying and swinging around in a manner that would have made Charlie Brown proud.


End file.
